Just look 'ee here, Mr. Preacher, you're a-goin' a bit too fur;
There isn't the man as is livin' as I'd let say a word agen her.
She's a rum-lookin' bitch, that I own to, and there is a fierce look in her eyes,
But if any cove says as she's vicious, I sez in his teeth he lies.
Soh! Gently, old 'ooman; come here, now, and set by my side on the bed;
I wonder who'll have yer, my beauty, when him as you're all to 's dead.
There, stow yer palaver a minit; I knows as my end is nigh;
Is a cove to turn round on his dog, like, just 'cos he's goin' to die?

Oh, of course, I was sartin you'd say it. It's allus the same with you.

Give it us straight, now, guv'nor—what would you have me do?
Think of my soul? I do, sir. Think of my Saviour? Right!
Don't be afeard of the bitch, sir; she's not a-goin' to bite.
Tell me about my Saviour—tell me that tale agen,
How he prayed for the coves as killed him, and died for the worst of men.
It's a tale as I always liked, sir; and bound for the 'ternal shore,
I thinks it aloud to myself, sir, and I likes it more and more.

I've thumbed it out in the Bible, and I know it now by heart,
And it's put the steam in my boiler, and made me ready to start.
I ain't not afraid to die now; I've been a bit bad in my day,
But I know when I knock at them portals there's one as won't say me nay.
And it's thinkin' about that story, and all as he did for us,
As make me so fond o' my dawg, sir; especially now I'm wus;
For a-savin' o' folks who'd kill us is a beautiful act, the which
I never heard tell on o' no one, 'cept o' him and o' that there bitch.

'Twas five years ago come Chrismus, maybe you remember the row,
There was scares about hydryphoby—same as there be just now;
And the bobbies came down on us costers—came in a reggerlar wax,
And them as 'ud got no license was summerned to pay the tax.
But I had a friend among 'em, and he come in a friendly way,
And he sez, 'You must settle your dawg, Bill, unless you've a mind to pay.'
The missus was dyin' wi' fever—I'd made a mistake in my pitch,
I couldn't afford to keep her, so I sez, 'I'll drownd the bitch.'

I wasn't a-goin' to lose her, I warn't such a brute, you bet,
As to leave her to die by inches o' hunger, and cold, and wet;
I never said now't to the missus—we both on us liked her well—
But I takes her the follerin' Sunday down to the Grand Canell.
I gets her tight by the collar—the Lord forgive my sin!
And, kneelin' down on the towpath, I ducks the poor beast in.
She gave just a sudden whine like, then a look comes into her eyes
As 'ull last forever in mine, sir, up to the day I dies.

And a chill came over my heart then, and thinkin' I heard her moan,
I held her below the water, beating her skull with a stone.
You can see the mark of it now, sir—that place on the top of 'er 'ed—
And sudden she ceased to struggle, and I fancied as she was dead.
I shall never know how it happened, but goin' to lose my hold,
My knees slipped over the towpath, and into the stream I rolled;
Down like a log I went, sir, and my eyes were filled with mud,
And the water was tinged above me with a murdered creeter's blood.

I gave myself up for lost then, and I cursed in my wild despair,
And sudden I rose to the surfis, and a su'thing grabbed at my hair,
Grabbed at my hair and loosed it, and grabbed me agin by the throat,
And she was a-holdin' my 'ed up, and somehow I kep' afloat.
I can't tell yer 'ow she done it, for I never knowed no more
Till somebody seized my collar, and give me a lug ashore;
And my head was queer and dizzy, but I see as the bitch was weak,
And she lay on her side a-pantin', waitin' for me to speak.

What did I do with her, eh? You'd a-hardly need to ax,
But I sold my barrer a Monday, and paid the bloomin' tax.

That's right, Mr. Preacher, pat her—you ain't not afeared of her now!—
Dang this here tellin' of stories—look at the muck on my brow.

I'm weaker, an' weaker, an' weaker; I fancy the end ain't fur,
But you know why here on my deathbed I think o' the Lord and her,
And he who, by men's hands tortured, uttered that prayer divine,
'Ull pardon me linkin' him like with a dawg as forgave like mine.
When the Lord in his mercy calls me to my last eternal pitch,
I know as you'll treat her kindly—promise to take my bitch!

Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career.
Yon crowding flock, that at a distance gaze,
Have haply foil'd the turf. See that old hound!
How busily he works, but dares not trust
His doubtful sense; draws yet a wider ring.
Hark! Now again the chorus fills. As bells,
Sally'd awhile, at once their paean renew,
And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls,
See how they toss, with animated rage
Recovering all they lost! That eager haste
Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! Yet once more

They're checked, hold back with speed—on either hand
They flourish round—e'en yet persist—'tis right.
Away they spring. The rustling stubbles bend
Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase
Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.
From brake to brake she flies, and visits all
Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure,
With love and plenty blest. See! There she goes,
She reels along, and by her gait betrays
Her inward weakness. See how black she looks!
The sweat, that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves
A languid scent. And now in open view
See! See! She flies! Each eager hound exerts
His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve;
How quick she turns! Their gaping jaws eludes,
And yet a moment lives—till, round enclosed
By all the greedy pack, with infant screams
She yields her breath, and there, reluctant, dies.

I know that the world, the great big world,
Will never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault,
But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me, I shall never pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right,
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.

My dog and I are both grown old;
On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:

The gray stone circlet is below,
The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks that roam and bleat.

Far off, the early horseman hies,
In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.

Though solitude around is spread,
Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee.

I marked his look of faithful care,
I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
"There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both," I cried.

The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:
"Come, Gelert! Why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells,
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And small and scant the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to meet.

But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert, too,
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.

He called the child—no voice replied;
He searched, with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!

"Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart,
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell
To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead—
Tremendous still in death.

Ah! What was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved!
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.